The call came from Sharon herself.
It was late afternoon when Arga's phone buzzed with her name. He froze, staring at the screen as though it were an illusion. Weeks of silence, of elusive encounters, of seeing her only from a distance — and now she was reaching out.
He answered quickly, his voice steadier than he felt. "Sharon."
"Arga." Her tone was cool, melodic, devoid of warmth yet not unkind. "Are you free this evening?"
"Yes," he said before she could add another word. "Where should I—"
"I'll send you the address. Come alone."
The line went dead.
***
The address led him to a quiet district overlooking the river. Sharon's penthouse was minimalist yet elegant, with wide glass windows that caught the fading light of sunset. The space smelled faintly of lilies, and a soft piano track played in the background, each note deliberate, restrained.
She was waiting for him in the living room, dressed in a black silk dress that clung to her form with disarming simplicity. No diamonds tonight, no blinding glamour. Only the purity of shadow.
"Thank you for coming," she said, gesturing toward a low sofa. "Please, sit."
He obeyed, his movements stiff. Something about the atmosphere unsettled him. The silence here was not empty; it was measured, like a stage waiting for its play to begin.
Sharon poured two glasses of red wine, handing one to him before settling across from him. For a moment, neither spoke.
Finally, Arga broke the silence.
"I've been wanting to see you… properly. Not just across a ballroom, or in passing. I'm glad you called."
Her lips curved slightly, but her eyes remained unreadable. "You've been wanting that, yes. I could see it in your expression every time you spotted me."
He winced at the accuracy of her observation. "Because there are things I need to say. Things I should have said years ago."
She leaned back, her glass resting elegantly between her fingers. "Then say them."
***
Arga inhaled deeply, searching for words that had weighed on him since childhood.
"Sharon, I was cruel to you. I mocked you when we were children, and I didn't stop when others joined in. I… I didn't realize how much damage it caused. Or maybe I refused to realize. I thought it was harmless fun. But it wasn't. It was cruelty."
His voice cracked on the last word, and he quickly steadied himself.
"I see you now — everything you've become — and I know you didn't need me or anyone else to build your strength. But still… I'm sorry. For all of it. For every word, every laugh at your expense. I carry that guilt with me."
He lowered his gaze, fingers tightening around the wine glass. The admission felt raw, unshielded.
Sharon studied him silently. Her face betrayed nothing, though her eyes seemed sharper, almost glimmering in the dim light.
At last, she asked softly, "And you think an apology is enough?"
Arga looked up, startled. "I don't expect forgiveness. I just… I needed to tell you. To acknowledge the pain I caused."
She tilted her head, her tone almost musing. "Acknowledgment is easy, Arga. Anyone can confess when years have dulled the consequences. But tell me — where was this guilt when I was a child, sobbing in a bathroom stall? Where was this conscience when your laughter turned me into a monster in their eyes?"
Her words cut clean, precise.
Arga swallowed hard. "I was young. I didn't—"
"You knew." Her voice sharpened now, her mask slipping just enough to reveal the steel beneath. "Children know cruelty. They may not name it, but they know it. And you—" she leaned forward slightly, her gaze pinning him in place— "you enjoyed it."
The air between them tightened.
Arga's mouth opened, but no words came. Because she was right. Somewhere in the recesses of memory, he could still feel the thrill of superiority, the sick rush of power in mocking her.
Sharon leaned back again, her composure restored. "So now you come here, years later, offering regret. Do you imagine that erases the scars?"
"No," he whispered. "But I hoped… maybe… it could be the beginning of something different. A chance to—"
"To what?" Her laugh was soft, humorless. "To cleanse your conscience? To prove you're a better man now?"
Arga flinched.
Sharon swirled the wine in her glass, watching the crimson liquid spiral. "Tell me, Arga. If I were still that awkward, ugly girl, would you be here tonight? Would you be desperate to apologize? Or would you still be laughing?"
His silence was the only answer.
She smiled then, a slow, dangerous smile. "That's what I thought."
***
The wine glass clicked softly against the table as Sharon set it down. She stood, moving toward the window where the city lights shimmered below. Her silhouette was sleek, commanding.
"You see, Arga," she said without turning, "I don't need your apology. I don't need your guilt. Both are useless to me."
She pivoted then, her eyes locking on his, sharp as a blade. "What I need is for you to know what it feels like. To live every day beneath the shadow of someone else's judgment. To question whether your success, your charm, your worth — are ever truly yours. That is the justice I seek."
Arga stood slowly, shaken by the venom in her voice. "Sharon—"
She raised a hand, silencing him. "You will not call me that as though we are friends. Not yet."
He froze.
Her voice softened, almost gentle, but the cruelty laced beneath it was unmistakable. "You've built a life on control, on power, on never being the one at the mercy of another. But now… now I am in your circles, in your boardrooms, in your headlines. I am the shadow that walks beside you. You can't escape me, Arga. Not anymore."
The words sank into him like ice.
For the first time in years, Arga Bridgman felt small. Not because of who Sharon had been — but because of who she had become.
She crossed the room slowly, stopping just a breath away. Her perfume enveloped him, intoxicating and suffocating all at once.
"Go," she whispered. "Take your apology with you. I'll decide when, and if, you deserve to be heard again."
Her eyes glittered, unreadable. "Until then, live with the weight you've carried. I intend to add more."
***
Arga left the apartment with his chest tight, his thoughts in a storm. He had come seeking redemption, perhaps even reconciliation. Instead, he had found the knife she had sharpened from years of pain — and she had twisted it with elegance.
Yet, as he stepped into the night, one truth burned beneath the humiliation: he could not stay away from her.
And Sharon knew it.
Inside, she returned to the window, watching his car pull away. Her lips curved into the faintest smile.
The first cut had been made.
And the game was only beginning.